


Mad Comet

by Architraves



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angie Martinelli - Freeform, Angst, First World War, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nurse Peggy, Peggy Carter - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Starbucks, Stucky - Freeform, Terrible poetry, WW1, WW1 Poets, Who Will Of Course Kick Ass At Some Point, poet AU, poets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-03 09:37:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4096045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Architraves/pseuds/Architraves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And you have fixed my Life - however short. You did not light me: I was always a mad comet; but you have fixed me." - Wilfred Owen to Siegfried Sassoon, 5th November 1917.</p><p>Private Steven Rogers is a patient suffering from shell shock (now recognised as PTSD). Sergeant James Barnes is a rebellious war poet. There is only one way this can go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have limited knowledge on the role of the USA in the First World War, of whether British treatment centres (that term comes from Google, not me) accepted American soldiers and really of any military titles/ranks, so I apologise for any inaccuracies. Feel free to comment and correct me on anything! x

In all the time he had spent wondering what the war was going to be like, Private Steven Rogers had never imagined anything like this.

The Western Front was far worse that even what the darkest corners of his mind had brought up when he was back in the States, all mud and blood, screaming shells and machine gun bullets. During the night, when it was occasionally quieter, the bullets of snipers still came, making it impossible for anybody to sleep soundly without dreams of death. That is if the rain, the stench of the latrines, disease and the ever-appearing bodies buried into the sides of the trenches hadn't made them uncomfortable first.

After a month, the unimaginable horrors and overwhelming stress of war had brought him to the edge. It was only a matter of time before he was tipped over.

It was a beautiful French summer morning by anyone's standards. The early dawn sky was cloudless, still a deep blue, and was beginning to fade into a pale rose to the east. This sight was marred terribly by the ragged shadows of no-man's land, still dark, but the appalling contrast was something that Steve's eyes had long been numbed to.

"Hopefully, we'll be back here before they start stinking in the heat," The Englishman to Steve's right commented. He didn't specify who 'they' were; he didn't have to. Steve turned away, praying that he wouldn't be one of 'them' - the bodies that hadn't been brought back, still mouldering in no-man's land and squelching under heavy boots with every attack. The Englishman had a look on his face that was almost sympathetic, and didn't say anything else that would mean that Steve would have to reply. Steve Rogers was far from the youngest soldier in the trenches, in his early twenties when some were lying their way in at sixteen, but he was small and slight. Even in training he'd only strengthened his limbs, made them more wiry than breakable, and for a while now he'd had a hacking cough. His physical condition often led to comments about how he shouldn't be there, which of course had initially led to Steve being even more determined to prove those that sneered at him wrong. But now? He wanted to lay down and die, and the other soldier could see that written across his face.

He offered Steve a cigarette, who accepted dubiously. He rarely smoked, which was why he didn't think to cup his hand around the glowing end when the Englishman passed the lit cigarette over.

Which was why, less than a second later, the Englishman's skull shattered into smears of red as an early sniper, having already moved into position, found him.

* * *

 

In the treatment centre, Steve couldn't recall what had happened after that moment.

"Try, Private Rogers," One of the doctors, Dr Dulard, encouraged him, pencil poised above paper. "It's very important that you try."

"But I don't know!" Steve said, exasperated. "I just remember...the fragments. The red. And then- nothing."

Dulard sighed. "We need to find another method," He decided finally. "I cannot help you if you only say 'nothing'. Perhaps we could think of the first thing that you do remember, after the incident. Before you arrived at the treatment centre."

"In the hospital?"

"Yes. Try thinking of the hospital."

"I..." Steve struggled. "I remember seeing the sheets, and they- were bloody." Steve's mind threw an image at him, hitting so hard that he almost doubled over. "He didn't have legs. They were gone."

For a long moment, Steve's senses were soaked in the memory. The soldier being carried in, crying out and frantic with the dizzying pain, with layers and layers of bandages covering the stumps. _Won't live long now, poor bastard_ , the man on the bed beside Steve's had said. _Won't live long at all._

And suddenly, Steve was back in the present. Looking at Dr Dulard, with his fingernails digging into his own thighs. He was trembling. Dulard gave him a once-over, then closed his file. "I think that should be all for today. These are clearly very difficult memories for you," he said gently. "I advise you to interact with the other patients here. Discussing your experiences in an informal environment may prove helpful, or perhaps taking part in recreational activities. I don't suppose you've met Sergeant Barnes?"

Steve shook his head. Although he vaguely recognised the name, he'd never seen nor spoken to Barnes.

"I think you would benefit a great deal from speaking to him. He's an American too, you know. He writes fantastic poetry detailing his own experiences with the war. Several of his works have been printed - I believe some even made it to the front lines."

And that was when Steve realised. Oh - _that_ Sergeant Barnes. He tried to keep his facial expression neutral, but inside he was enormously interested. He'd had no idea that Barnes had been admitted to a hospital, much less this exact one. The Sergeant had been a bit of a conversation topic in the trenches as a highly intelligent and literary man, whose poems reflected the pain and trauma of the war exactly as it was felt by many. He'd pored over an excerpt once, crumpled and muddied as it had been passed from man to man, and wanted to cry at how accurately Barnes had portrayed the sense of utter hopelessness that filled every heart, and how impossible it was to lift even in the aftermath of a small victory. "I may have heard his name, actually," Steve replied after a pause. "Some poems were passed around to keep everyone's spirits up. If he wrote some of those, I'd like to thank him for that. Do you know where I can find him?"

"I do, yes. His room is in the wing directly across from the lecture hall, right by the window at the end. The room on the left. I would advise knocking before you enter, though, as the Sergeant values his privacy when he's working."

"Of course. Thank you, doctor."

Dulard gave him small smile, and opened up the file again. He became instantly engrossed in what notes he was reflecting on, which was the signal that the meeting between doctor and patient had reached its end. Generally, Steve was a little disheartened by the end of a discussion with Dulard - mostly because he never felt any better, and feared that he'd forever have to live in some kind of institution. But today, as he stood up and nodded a polite goodbye, he felt a little more cheerful because he had something to look forward to.

After dinner, he decided, he would pay a visit to Sergeant Barnes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning for some insensitive referrals to mental health/PTSD by the characters. This is only meant to reflect the beliefs of the time period, and not my own views.

Steve was relieved to note that dinner had passed fairly quickly.

The meal - sheep’s head broth - was bland, but for once he barely noticed. He was considering his plans for the evening.

After mopping up the last of the greasy broth with half of a thick slice of bread, Steve took his plate over to the kitchen. He tried to ignore the sight of some of the more seriously ill patients, some trembling so that they had to be fed by the gentle hands of nurses, and others jerking horribly even at the sound of a knife clattering onto a table. He knew he could be just like that, and thanked God that he’d never suffered what they had. Some of them had seen and experienced appalling things, even more so than what he had. It wasn’t a thought that he liked to dwell on.

Pushing the misfortunes of himself and others out of his mind, Steve left the dining room behind and made his way up to the lecture hall. He wracked his brains to think of the directions Dr Dulard had given him - across from the lecture hall, right at the end by the window. The room on the left. Despite knowing that the directions were accurate, Steve couldn’t help but second guess his own memory; it wasn’t as clear as it had been. He felt like what he’d been through had scrambled his brains somewhat, an idea he’d voiced to Dulard more than once. The doctor had told him not to be concerned - his brain was merely adjusting to what he had seen, and the trauma that he’d experienced. Talking about it was sure to help. That, Steve was unsure of. However, he would like to talk to Sergeant Barnes, if only as a fellow soldier and a fan of his poetry.

Outside the lecture hall, he turned right and headed down the small wing where Sergeant Barnes’ room was situated. It wasn’t a long hallway, and only a few paces later he was at the window. He stopped to gaze out of it, the dulling green of the late summer British countryside calming his mind. It was nothing like Brooklyn, like home, but it was also nothing like the battle torn fields of France and Belgium and that was enough. Suddenly, he was aware that he was stalling and turned back to face the door, getting back to the task at hand. Remembering Dulard’s advice, he knocked twice.

Nothing.

Steve paused, then knocked again.

Silence.

He hovered there for a minute or so, listening intently for any sounds of movement, then went to leave. As he made his way back towards the lecture hall, however, he heard a door open behind him and a rather sharp voice. “You may as well come back here, since you’ve already disturbed me.”

Embarrassed that the Sergeant had caught him trying to sneak away, Steve hurried back. “I’m terribly sorry for disturbing you. I thought that you would be resting after dinner."

Barnes just looked at him, unimpressed by his apologetic burbling. “An American,” He said eventually. “I assume Dulard sent you to speak to me?”

Steve was taken aback. “Yes, actually.”

“Of course,” Barnes sighed. “If I had time to speak to every American he pushed my way, I would never get any work done. I suppose he wants me to talk to you about our shared experiences, and how I use poetry as a release?”

“I guess that would be helpful?” Steve tried.

“No.”

“I’m sorry?”

"I said, no. I’m not insane, and I’m not a coward. I don’t have time to play doctor.”

That hit a nerve. Steve found himself standing up straight, furious at this man’s judgement of patients in this hospital - particularly as he _was_ a patient. “You’re not insane and you’re not a coward? Then why are you in here, Sergeant?” He snapped.

“Because I wrote anti-war poetry and they assumed I was insane. After threatening to court martial me, of course." The other man replied, sounding bored as though he had repeated the same words dozens of times. "Why are  _you_  in here?”

“I watched a man get killed by a German sniper, and it was my fault.”

Barnes leaned against the doorframe. “Why do you say that?”

“He lit me a cigarette, and I didn’t cup my hands when he passed it to me.” Steve replied, the memory like tearing stitches in a wound.

Barnes studied him for a long moment, and Steve looked back at him. The man was fairly good looking, he noted in an almost absent way. He’d have no trouble finding a wife back home. Good cheekbones, a defined jawline and a strong, slightly cleft chin. His hair was neatly oiled and combed. The only off-putting thing about his appearance was his eyes; a fantastic bright blue, but fierce and guarded. The intensity of his gaze was enough to make anybody squirm, and after a few seconds of it focused on him Steve felt himself begin to flush in the cheeks.

Barnes finally glanced away, over Steve's shoulder to the bare wall behind him. Then he said tiredly, still not looking at Steve, “Nothing in this war is any of our faults. This war is between politicians. We simply follow orders, as do our superiors. The blame of this slaughter goes far beyond you and I, far beyond anybody who has seen the trenches with their own eyes." Abruptly, his tone changed to one of genuine curiosity. "What’s your name?"

"Priv-"

"Not your rank. Your name.”

“Steve.”

Barnes held out a hand. “James.” He introduced himself. Steve took his hand, and James shook it firmly. “Come back tomorrow, after breakfast. We can talk then.”

Steve shook his head. "I wouldn't want to interfere with your work." He said, perhaps a little more icily than he meant to.

The other man raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised by Steve's tone. Then he smiled slightly. "You already have. You may as well interfere a little more. I only ask that you come after breakfast."

Steve couldn't find it in himself to argue. "I'll be here." He said finally.

Sergeant Barnes - James - nodded. Then, without another word, he retreated back into his room and closed the door.

For a few seconds Steve just stood there, gazing at the wood and wondering what in God's name had just happened. Eventually, he pulled himself away and made the long, winding journey through the hallways back to his own room.

The only explanation that he had was that Barnes felt some kind of pity for him, the kind that pushed past the prejudices that he clearly had against the other patients. Steve knew that he wasn't insane, and that surely meant that none of the other men here were - no matter how far gone they seemed to be. The war affected everybody in different amounts.

Reclining on his bed, Steve considered what the other man had said - that the war was between politicians, and not men such as themselves. They were only following orders, and so the blame should be put on the people much higher up. It was vaguely comforting, in a frightening sort of way that made one realise how much of a puppet they were in this war. He realised that perhaps it was this content that Barnes had been spreading throughout the trenches - the idea that those giving the orders were safe, far away from the slaughter. It was almost a miracle that he'd been allowed to live, given the precarious state of the soldier's spirits. Ideas like that were bound to spread negativity.

Barnes must be a damn good poet, Steve thought. He most definitely needed to read more of his work.

And so he would, in the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this chapter took so long! It's difficult to find the time to write during exam season...so of course that's when I decided to start writing.  
> This chapter is slightly longer than the previous ones though, so I hope that makes up for it! x

Steve honestly was unsure of why he was doing this - 'this' referring to eating his breakfast early in preparation for visiting Sergeant Barnes. The meal was porridge with a light sprinkling of brown sugar, one of the more enjoyable options, and it was easy for Steve to spoon it into his mouth with little concentration. His concentration was instead fixed on Sergeant Barnes, or James, and what on Earth he could possibly say to him.

Yesterday, he had been prepared for a quiet, inoffensive man - possibly with spectacles - who wrote poetry both melancholy and powerful and who would listen to Steve's woes with an attentive, sensitive ear. Instead, he had been faced with James Barnes, who seemed to be anything but inoffensive. In contrast, he'd spoken to Steve as though he'd wanted to irritate him, and had succeeded in doing so. Despite that, Steve refused to believe that somebody capable of putting such feeling into poetry about his experiences of war would really have such low opinions of his fellow patients. It seemed - and now, he thought, I'm beginning to turn into Dulard - as though Barnes had been tryingt to push him away. To make him _want_ to leave. But when Steve had told him, somewhat curtly, why he was a patient here...his whole demeanor had changed. How could that be?

Steve scraped up his last few mouthfuls of porridge, considering this and trying to delay their meeting. Eventually, as the room emptied, he knew he had to go and visit him. After all, Barnes would be expecting him and he would definitely feel guilty for the rest of the day, if not for the rest of the week, if he didn't.

Officially, breakfast finished at nine. At ten minutes past, Steve was once again knocking on Barnes' door. This time, the door opened almost immediately.

Barnes was wearing ordinary clothing as opposed to his uniform, like the majority of patients did unless they were expecting visitors. He was just doing up the last few buttons as he opened the door, and straightened his collar in silence before saying anything. It seemed to be a challenge. Steve was fond of a challenge, and so said nothing.

"Good morning," Barnes said once he was comfortable with the position of his shirt collar. "Would you like to come in?"

"Yes, please," Steve responded politely, and said nothing else. Barnes raised an eyebrow, but even so took a step back from the doorway to allow Steve to pass him. It was a narrow squeeze, and once he was inside it was easy for Steve to see why; Barnes' room was impossibly small. It could never have been a real bedroom back in the time when the building had been a luxurious stately home, nor when it was first converted into a private hospital a few decades previous. Surely sleeping in such a small space could do no good for a man's health? Meanwhile, the resident poet had clearly noticed Steve's surprise.

"It used to be a storage room," He explained. "For laundry and clean sheets when this place was a home, or so I've been told. When it became a hospital, it stayed that way. Then when the military needed it, all space was utilised."

"Of course," Steve nodded. "But don't you feel awfully cramped in?"

"Not particularly. In all honesty, it can feel very safe in the dark."

As if feeling that he had strayed into a more sensitive topic, Barnes immediately silenced. He indicated for Steve to sit on a chair, placed in front of a desk that was covered in newspaper and odd pieces of paper of varying quality, and then sat on his own bed. He said nothing for a long moment.

"So..." Steve began tentatively, hands pressed flat between his knees so that he didn't fidget. "Dulard suggested that we discuss your poetry."

"There isn't very much to discuss, I'm afraid. He finds my poetry fantastic because he doesn't see the truth in it. You, of course, would."

"I do see the truth in it, but I still think that your poetry is fantastic." Steve argued.

A hint of a smile grew on Barnes' face. "Perhaps you're not very literary."

"Perhaps. But I know that your poetry inspired a good half mile of our trench."

Barnes didn't say anything, but he looked pleased. In response, he stood up and walked over to his desk. It only took a couple of steps due to the size of the room. Then, he leaned across Steve, the soft, worn material of his shirt just barely brushing his arm, and took something from the desk. A sheaf of paper. Still silent, he flicked through them until he found what he was looking for. "What do you think of this?" He asked, holding it out.

"Did you write it?" Steve looked up at him, curious, as he took the sheet.

"It's a work in progress."

"And you want me to read it?" He actually felt a little honoured.

"Yes." Barnes replied, his tone suddenly irritable. Steve decided that he he had better not ask any further questions, turning his attention to the paper in his hand. It was covered in blots and hurried, slanted writing organised into three or four neat stanzas. As Steve's eyes flickered across the page, he became aware of the poet watching him intently, looking for any reaction on his face. He tried to keep emotionless, to keep Barnes in suspense, but despite himself his mouth was hanging just slightly open in amazement. He certainly did have a way with words, even in an unfinished poem. Once he reached the last stanza, his head shot up.

"You need to finish this!" He told him. "It's magnificent. Or it would be if it had an ending."

"I'm tempted to leave it there," Barnes admitted. "To leave the reader hanging, as it were. They will never know what happened, and neither will the others in the poem."

Steve nodded in agreement. It would be extremely cruel, but a real stroke of genius. He knew already that the piece, even unfinished, would be on his mind for a few days at least. It suddenly occurred to him how personal it must be for Barnes to share a poem that he had not finished writing - the emotions raw and unedited, the rhymes not perfected. He wanted to ask why Barnes had shown him that, but he didn't dare.

Barnes took the poem back from Steve, carefully folding it and putting it back on the desk. He seemed to abruptly realise that he was standing, and once again took his place on the bed before leaning forward. "Is there anything else that you would like to discuss?"

"Anything else?" Steve repeated, surprised. "We've barely discussed anything at all!"

"We discussed my poetry, at least to an extent, as Dulard suggested. You read a relatively new poem of mine. What else is there to cover?"

"I- was expecting to talk about our...experiences. Of the war."

"My poems are my experiences of the war." Barnes answered.

Steve frowned. "But they're so different. There was the one about being shot at dawn, and the strangling with razor wire? And having no legs."

"A friend of mine was shot at dawn," The poet told him, the words coming easily but his tone too light to be genuinely comfortable with the topic. "I watched a man choke to death and have his throat torn open when he was trapped in the wire. Then, when I was taken for the treatment of a shrapnel wound, a man was carried by me on a stretcher - with his legs only bloodied stumps. All of my poetry includes things that I have seen or experienced, Steve. I find it very difficult to talk about what happened to me, as I'm sure you do. Writing is far easier." He paused, then added, "You should try it."

"Writing poetry?"

"If you think you would find it beneficial."

"I doubt it would be very good poetry. Not on your level, certainly."

Barnes shrugged. "Even if the end result is terrible, writing it may still help."

"I'll bring it to show you," Steve said. "And you can tell me how awful it is. Your real, honest poet's opinion."

At that, Barnes smiled. Not the small, polite one from the previous day; a real, amused smile. "I would be honoured."

Inexplicably, Steve felt his face grow hot. "Definitely, then."

"Definitely," Barnes agreed. He then glanced at his desk, and Steve gladly took the hint.

"I should be leaving, actually. I volunteered to help with today's tasks in the garden."

"Oh? Perhaps you could write a poem about that. A simple topic to start off with, before you go into the depth of what you saw in the trenches?"

"Yes, I like that idea," Steve responded as he made his way to the door. "Thank you, Barnes."

"You're welcome," The other man replied. "Thank you for coming to visit me."

"It was a pleasure."

"I'm glad that you think so. I won't keep you any longer. But Steve?"

Steve, whose attention had wandered to the small crowd outside the lecture hall that indicated that the mid-morning activities were soon to begin, glanced back. "Yes?"

"Please, call me James."


	4. Chapter 4

It was very surprising for Steve just how much he enjoyed gardening. He'd always enjoyed drawing flowers, among other things, when he'd been able to afford the materials, but he had never really considered taking the time to plant any. Frankly, he'd never had the time, what with working any hours he could get at the local market between bouts of illness in order to pay his rent and add to his forever dwindling savings.

After a good few hours of digging holes in moist soil and gently patting it down around the fragile seedlings, Steve had decided that gardening would be one of the activities that he would regularly take part in. He pressed another handful of soil around the stem of one of the plants, smiling to himself as he considered this. Dulard was sure to be proud - taking part in group activities and following his suggestion of speaking to Sergeant Barnes? Steve was almost cooperating, and that, when taking into account his stubbornness, was something the doctor would find pleasing.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself," A woman's voice commented from behind him, slightly teasing. Immediately, Steve stood up and turned around to face her. It was only polite to do so. She was very beautiful, he noted. Her hair, a glossy dark brown in colour, was pulled back from her face and mostly hidden beneath the hat that was part of the hospital nurse's uniform. Her expression was gentle, as was her voice, but her eyes were deep and seemed to hide a fire with them. What man would _dare_ to remain ill in her care, he had no idea.

"I am, ma'am. I've never spent much time in the garden," He replied after a moment.

The nurse smiled. "I do suppose it depends where you lived before the War. I lived in London; we had a large garden so I often spent time out there," Her question was unspoken, clearly not wanting to press Steve for information.

"I lived in Brooklyn," He told her, easily enough. "There were very few gardens in my neighbourhood."

"I see," The woman said tactfully, and Steve was pleased that she seemed to understand his implied financial background just from that. Back in the trenches, fellow soldiers had often suggested that he just move to Manhattan as it was a much nicer area. It was unbelievable how oblivious some people could be, particularly those who had plenty of money in their pockets.

Steve was abruptly drawn from his thoughts when she added, "You do have plenty of time and room to garden here. You may as well enjoy it before you leave."

"Yes, ma'am," Steve agreed. "I'm sure I will."

She opened her mouth as if to say something else, but just as she did a young woman called to her from one of the hospital's many entrances; a flight of stone steps leading to a grand double doorway. "Peggy!" The girl shouted again, balancing a pile of what appeared to be freshly laundered sheets on one arm. "Dr Rivers would like to see you."

The nurse, Peggy, glanced over for a second. "I'm sure I'll see you out here again soon," She said, looking back at Steve. "Take care of yourself, Private."

Steve nodded quickly. "Yes, ma'am," He said with conviction. "You too."

Peggy gave Steve a warm smile, before heading over to the steps. She took half of the pile from the other nurse, who looked very grateful, and together they headed indoors. Steve watched her go until she was out of sight, and then - rather unwillingly - turned his attention back to his seedlings.

 

* * *

 

When Steve was satisfied, he made his way back up to his room for a rest before lunch. Resting and recreational activities were a key part of recovery, as far as the doctors were concerned, and plenty of time was given each day for both. There was still an hour before lunch, and Steve had plans to wash the dirt from his face and arms before taking a short nap.

However, once he was clean, Steve's eyes fell on the paper Dr Dulard had put on his bedside drawers. One of Dulard's earlier ideas had been for Steve to note down anything that he would like to discuss, but it had never been necessary. For a start, Steve never wanted to discuss anything at all during their meetings. But now, he was thinking of Barnes - or, rather, James - and the poem that he'd suggested writing. Steve was no poet, but perhaps he could experiment? The result was sure to be at the very least entertaining.

Unlike James, though, Steve had nowhere comfortable to write. He didn't have a desk, possibly because he wasn't a published poet and had no right to such a privilege, and so the only hard, flat surface available was the polished wood of the chest of drawers. That, of course, was too far for Steve to reach when seated on either his chair or his bed. Eventually, after experimentation, Steve found that the best way to write was to lay on the floor, propped up on one elbow. It was in this position that he attempted to write his first poem:

 

> _Gardening._
> 
> _Green grass, clouds pass,_
> 
> _Toiling away in the garden._
> 
> _Seeds grow, leaves show,_
> 
> _Stems are sure to harden._
> 
>  

Steve stopped, and read the first four lines back to himself.

The only positive to the entire short stanza was that some of it rhymed. Compared to Barnes' poetry - ' _You are too young to fall asleep for ever; and when you sleep you remind me of the dead_ ' ** - it was highly embarrassing. Still, he considered, James might find it amusing if nothing else.

Speculatively glancing at his wristwatch, Steve was surprised that it was only ten minutes until the soldiers were served their small lunch in the main dining room. He had worked up quite an appetite in the garden, and lunch was not something that he had intentions of missing. He would have to find James afterwards and give his poem to him then. But, he considered, if he took a small detour on the way he could easily post the piece of paper beneath James' door for him to read after lunch. Then, James could read it and maybe even respond before dinner. _I could even visit him again_ , Steve thought, but he soon pushed that thought away from his mind. While he had been polite, Steve had gotten the impression that James did not like the visitors that Dr Dulard sent his way.

Suddenly aware that his window of opportunity was closing, Steve scribbled a signature on the bottom of the page and then carefully folded it in half, slipping it into the top pocket of his shirt. He would have to walk quickly if he wanted to get to lunch in time.

Since Steve had managed to remember the route he had taken to James' room on his last visit, it was only a few minutes before he was once again standing at the end of the hallway beside the window. He hesitated, piece of paper in hand. What if James simply wanted to laugh at him? What if he thought that Steve was too uneducated to associate with? But then, why should that even matter to Steve? After a moment of indecision, Steve abruptly bent down and slid the poem through the small gap at the bottom of the door. Then, unsure if James was inside or not, he hurried away. There was no way that he wanted to see James' face as he read the appalling poem. Besides, he was starving.

Which was why Steve wasn't there when, a short while later, laughter came from behind the door to the poet's room for the first time in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **'The Dug-Out', Siegfried Sassoon.  
> As Bucky's character is largely based on the famous war poet Siegfried Sassoon, I chose to use quotes from his poems whenever I'm quoting poetry written by 'Bucky'. All of these will, of course, be credited. While I can jokingly write terrible poetry (reference Steve's attempt), I could never successfully recreate poetry like Sassoon's.
> 
> Also, I know that being a nurse isn't the most original role for a female character (sorry, Peggy and Angie!) but this is a WWI AU set in a hospital...there's only so much feminism I can get into this environment. And, believe me, it'll come.
> 
> Finally: 'Stems are sure to harden'. Poor Steve and his accidental innuendos! You never know, it could work in his favour...


	5. Chapter 5

Mere minutes after Steve sat down at a table and began to eat, James entered the dining room.  
Steve realised quite abruptly that he had never encountered the poet outside of his own domain near the lecture hall, and a similar thought seemed to be occurring to some of the men sitting at the tables surrounding Steve's. Around the room, he could see his fellow soldiers and patients glancing in James' direction. James had clearly noticed, and was ducking his head to avoid making eye contact with anybody.  
"Barnes!" One man finally called across the room in greeting, breaking what had become a strange, tense silence. "It's good to see you again!"  
James responded to him with only a flicker of a smile and turned away. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable with the attention that he was receiving, and Steve felt a little sorry for him.  
The focus of the patients gradually fell back to the meals in front of them, and it was only then that James approached Steve with his own plate of food.  
"Is anybody sitting here?"  
Steve shook his head, and after a pause James set his plate down and took the seat opposite. "Do you eat in here often? I can't say that I've ever seen you." Steve ventured after a few minutes of eating quietly but companionably.  
"I get put off my food in here," James replied bluntly.  
"How so?"  
"There is always somebody who wants to discuss the war, and really I think every man here has had quite enough of it already."  
Steve could not argue with that. "Well, what do you like to discuss over lunch?"  
And there it was, that slight but genuine smile making a reappearance. "I do like to discuss poetry."  
"Ah. My favourite topic." Steve knew what was coming.  
"I'll say. I assume that the poem 'Gardening' was your work?"  
Steve snorted. "If you can call that a poem."  
James' eyes glinted mischievously. "Oh, it was definitely a poem. I must say, the last line was intriguing in terms of metaphor."  
"The last line?" Steve repeated. "I have to say, I can't even recall what I wrote."  
"'Stems are sure to harden'," James quoted, raising his eyebrows minutely. His expression was just enough to make Steve realise what else that line could be suggesting, and he immediately felt his face grow hot.  
"I- I didn't mean to imply anything-"  
"Of course not," James agreed smoothly. He paused, making steady eye contact with Steve before continuing, "The meaning is interpreted by the reader."  
Steve gazed back at the poet for a moment too long, and then cleared his throat. "So," He began, picking at his slice of potato pie to distract himself from James' soul-searching gaze. "What was all that?"  
"All what?" James asked absent-mindedly, eyes on his own food. Steve held in a sigh of relief as he went along with the change of topic.  
"When you came into the dining room, and the men went quiet," Steve answered. "You said that you never come in here, but I doubt that you are the only man in the hospital that wants to keep away from the topic of war."  
James took a long time to reply. At first, Steve thought that he had somehow not heard what he had said, but then realised that James was biting his lip.  
"My apologies," Steve said eventually. "I shouldn't pry."  
The other man shook his head. "Nonsense. I was just trying to...word it correctly. And gauge the type of man that you are."  
"The type of man that I am?" Steve repeated, surprised. "Why does that matter?"  
"It gives an indication of what your reaction might be. And for Heaven's sake, keep your voice down!"  
"Yes, sir," Steve said, subdued.  
James gave him an approving sort of look, and then turned his attention back to his plate. Just when Steve thought that he was not going to answer, he said softly, "As I'm sure you know, certain poets have reputations regarding their...attraction to women. Or, rather, their lack of it. Some time ago, I was seen in a what looked to be a compromising position with another soldier - it was completely innocent, of course. But some of the men here began to think the worst of me. I wasn't interested in their insults, and chose to keep myself out of the firing line, so to speak."  
Steve replied slowly, voice quiet, "That makes sense. But what you do is your own business."  
A shadow of a smile appeared on James' face. "Is that so?"  
"It is."  
"If what they assumed of me was true, would you be concerned?"  
Steve laughed. "Of course not! After all, we're only acquaintances."  
It was the wrong thing to say. James' smile faded. "We are?"  
"Which is to say," Steve continued hurriedly. "That I barely know you. But...I would like to get to know you better."  
James looked doubtful, but evidently decided not to disagree. They finished their meals in relative silence, with the first sound from either of them in twenty minutes being the scrape of James' chair against the wooden floorboards as he stood up. For a second, Steve thought that he was going to simply walk away without another word. But instead, he leaned down slightly to say, "Feel free to pay me a visit if you need further help with your poetry."  
Steve nodded, and flashed him a quick, grateful smile. James returned the smile, small as was his way but definitely there, and then took his plate back to the kitchen. Ignoring the curious looks from the other soldiers present, Steve followed his lead a moment later. Unfortunately, James had already gone back to his room.

Steve truly regretted telling James that they were merely acquaintances, particularly when only seconds before the poet had confided in him. It seemed that despite them only having spoken a few times, James trusted Steve and even considered him a friend - something that Steve had thrown back in his face.  
He didn't see James for the rest of the day, which he spent reading and resting after his morning in the garden. A meeting was scheduled with Dr Dulard for the next morning, and he wanted to be able to assure the doctor that he was following orders. Despite that, Steve knew that even while he concentrated on activities and rest and conversations with James - in that order - his mind was still only marginally better. He hadn't had the chance to further discuss his experiences with James, but just what he had recalled in that first conversation had shaken him up a little.  
Now, as he rested, Steve's mind wandered back to the swamped hell of the trenches, the deadly plain of no-man's land littered with shell holes, razor wire and dead men. The dead were English and German alike, as well as the other nationalities fighting for either side. He wondered how many American men, just like himself, were laying out there. Unrecovered. Never having the chance to emerge from battle with a broken mind or a missing limb.  
He knew that he was one of the lucky ones, but it didn't feel like it.

Steve woke up to screaming. It didn't occur to him immediately that the sound was coming from his own aching throat, instead sounding like the cries of the wounded and the dying back at the battlefield.  
"Steve?" A voice said, the door opening. Steve couldn't see who was speaking, his eyes filled with panicked tears, but he knew the voice well enough.  
"James?" He asked, gasping for breath.  
"Private!" Another voice joined the first, and this was the crisp accent of the nurse from the garden. Peggy. "Are you all right?"  
Steve wiped his eyes, fighting to calm down. His shoulders shook with wracking sobs and the effort of breathing, and he felt like he was going to vomit if he dared reply. Instead, he shook his head.  
Now that his vision wasn't blurred by tears, Steve could see James leaning against the wall beside his bed. His fists were clenched, and he looked pained. Peggy looked equally concerned, sitting beside Steve on his bed. He realised  that she was holding his hand, as if to ground him. It was working, and soon he was able to breathe almost normally.  
"Would you like me to call a doctor?" She asked him gently after a few minutes.  
Steve shook his head. "No, no thank you. I should be meeting with Dr Dulard tomorrow, anyway."  
Peggy gave him a warm smile. "Of course, Private." She turned to James. "I think we should give him some space, don't you?"  
James looked at her for a moment, glanced at Steve, and then nodded. "Yes, ma'am."  
"Just shout if you need anything." Peggy told Steve firmly. He gave her a grateful smile as she left, flicking the light off behind her. His eyelids were already drooping with exhaustion. But there was still a figure in his doorway, silhouetted in the weak light, holding onto the door handle.  
"Goodnight, Steve." It whispered. Then, gently, it closed the door, cocooning Steve once again in the safe darkness of his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently on holiday, so this chapter was written in pieces during quiet moments - so I'm updating quickly! Hope it was enjoyable. x


End file.
